


Fool

by decayandmagic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Mental Anguish, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decayandmagic/pseuds/decayandmagic
Summary: At least he knows he's better than good enough for her in bed. Otherwise she won't keep coming back for her fix.





	Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm new around AO3 and this is the first story I've ever written and posted for this platform. Kudos & comments will be greatly appreciated.

Teddy Lupin is foolish. So fucking foolish.

But not in the stupid way.

He's a different breed of foolish. He's the type of foolish that is dreamy and aloof and romantic. A man consumed with infatuation and love for someone who will never fall back into him. 

He's a fool for love.

Or at least his own idea of it, he realises—as he kisses the nape of Victoire's neck, feeling her squirm under him, and does not stop even as the realisation sinks deep into his thick skin. Doesn't bother to not make love to the girl who is only out to fuck him before her portkey departs to America and she will, _once again_ , be back in the arms of some random dude she found a couple weeks before in a swanky party. Doesn't bother to mask his hunger and desperation for her as he devours her lips and strokes her breasts and sweeps his fingers across her panty, as she moans his name a hundred times.

( _Teddy. Teddy! Oh God... Love. Ted!_ )

Teddy Lupin admits that he is a fool as he undresses her, popping open the buttons of her soft blue shirt and dragging down her skirt. Admits that he is a romantic and she's not in love with him—not like she _used_ to anyway—as he unhooks the white bralette she's wearing, kissing her bare skin in worship. Admits that she's only using him, for a good one night fuck, and does not mind. He trails kisses all the way down her chest to her stomach and then even lower, sliding her matching panty down her legs. Admits that perhaps he's using her too, that he's secretly hoping that the more times he's fucked her, the less he'd feel for her.

He kisses the space between her thighs, light and tender, savouring each taste, thinking that this is how salvation tastes. He takes his time, his mouth exploring the part of her he knows well, driving her crazy and over the edge.

But not crazy and over the edge enough for her to stay in England for him.

No, not enough. He's never enough for her. There's always some other person, some other bloke who is more captivating to her.

But even that charming bloke is not enough for her.

At least he knows he's better than good enough for her in bed. Otherwise she won't keep coming back for her fix.

He nudges her into all four, entering her from behind, his lips tracing the surgery scar down her back before moving back to her neck. He goes in and out of her, slow at first before picking up the pace and then slowing down again. Over and over. In a cycle she can keep up with. Just the way she likes it.

They come apart _almost always_ together. He shudders, makes sure to kiss her and holds her, preps her for the second round.

(She always wants a second round.)

So he rests between her legs, kissing her soft spot over and over, inserting finger after finger until she reaches the stars and plucks them from the sky. Until she's grounded again and they can go at it with his dick inside her in a different position.

She loves him in her bed. He loves her in and outside of it.

(He once told her that he'd relocate to America to be with her. She laughed, shook her head at him. _No, don't move to America for me._ )

She emanates a different kind of glow after sex. Not the usual golden glow she, her mother, and her sister emanate. It's a colder glow, almost iron-like. It makes her look like a goddess, the breed of goddess he worships until the day he dies.

He's worshipping her even now, staring at her in awe whilst he's catching his breath. His hand reaches out for her. She leans into him, relaxes under his touch, kisses the side of jaw twice.

"When will your portkey depart again?" he asks her as he settles against the headboard of her bed, holding her.

"Tomorrow at three in the evening," she shrugs, nonchalantly, resting her head on his chest, "you'll be here, won't you? Tomorrow at one? One last time? Edward's going to be waiting for me at the MACUSA Portkey office so I can't do two without him asking me questions and realising something's amiss."

"Yes, of course," he breathes, "I can come even earlier. Twelve?"

"Twelve sounds perfect, Teddy!"

Oh, he's a fool—and a fucking goner.


End file.
